Shopaholics
I watched Confessions of a Shopaholic in Singapore with a friend who loved to shop for clothes and shoes. I don’t remember how we picked out this film — it might have been intentional, or it could have been one of those evenings when we just decided to show up at the theatre and pick a movie.
I don’t remember how I felt about the film then, but it is one of those breezy ones I go back to whenever I don’t want to think. I contemplated reading one of Sophie Kinsella’s books, but the time was never right — until now. I always thought I needed more ‘depth’ and ‘insight’ in my reading, till this year arrived and told me I didn’t. There was enough depth in real life to allow for some flippancy in the imagination. And because blood and gore isn’t my thing, I chose books and films infused with shopping and glamour, which are otherwise lumped together as ‘chick-lit’, because anything related to women has to be made sparkly and pink and given a disparaging name.
Because I’ve never had a shopping problem as such (barring buying eyeliner pencils in several colours and rarely using them, because I don’t have places to wear purple glitter to), I can laugh at Becky Bloomwood’s shenanigans without relating to them. After all, who doesn’t have barely worn clothes in their cupboard?
In this spirit, I decided to read Christmas Shopaholic, which I started last week. I’m a hundred pages in, and nothing much has happened, but it is exactly that kind of comforting read where nothing dramatic needs to take place, but you return to it simply as you do to a familiar food or friend. I’ve seen one Christmas in England and one in the US, and I’ve seen the frenzy around shopping and bargain-hunting, as well as the planning that goes into Christmas meals. The hunt for gifts seems endless! Even as one of the characters in the books bemoans the consumerist nature of Christmas and gift-giving, Becky runs around feeding her own shopping addiction. On the way, she encounters little situations that bring a smile on my face and a sense of satisfaction that I’m not in her place.
During my year in Singapore, I absolutely looked down upon shopping, except for books. I wasn’t interested in clothes, and when my friend spoke of the joy of buying a new top on a weekend out, I didn’t really get it. I was snooty. I’ve had sense knocked into me now, of course; I know that shopping for all those books that I haven’t read yet wasn’t any better. You see, tastes change. I don’t feel like reading the books that I so virtuously bought in my twenties, assuming that my natural wisdom would be attracted to their profundity sooner or later. Later has arrived, but my wisdom is more keen on fripperies than Sartre. And it’s alright. It was easier when there was no online shopping or Kindle, and you had to read what was available, without finding something to satisfy a momentary craving and promptly forgetting it when another distraction presented itself.
A quarter into Christmas Shopaholic, the shopping and bargain-hunting seems to be getting slightly repetitive, but I’m willing to persist with it. If nothing, at least I’ll know if I’ve grown less judgemental!
